


Fifteen-Hundred And A Few

by EllaStorm



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Pendragon Returns, Canon Compliant, Character Death Fix, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gift Work, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 19:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17127338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: 2018. One and a half millennia have passed since Arthur died. Merlin is tired of waiting, tired of the disappointments he has suffered over the years. Just short of giving up, he falls victim to a strange kind of magic one late, rainy night - and maybe The Powers That Be just have terrible timing.





	Fifteen-Hundred And A Few

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SandraMorningstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandraMorningstar/gifts).



> This is a Christmas gift to my wonderful, wonderful friend @SandraMorningstar. Since neither of us ever really got over “The Diamond of the Day, Pt. 2” (and neither of us ever will, tbh), my prompt this year was a well overdue Arthur-Resurrection-Fix-It-Fic.
> 
> My dear Sandra, I can’t bring him back to life, but I’ll damn well try, and you’re very welcome to accept this as canon, should you like it enough ;-)
> 
> A most wonderful Christmas to you :*

The TV was flickering through the room, a soundless, neon-blue glow, when Merlin woke to the clap of thunder from outside. He twisted on his worn-out leather couch, yawning -- and startled up only a second later.

His face felt…strange.

Merlin touched his cheeks and chin and, right beneath his fingertips, found the source of his puzzlement. What he touched was skin. Not the long, white beard that _should_ be there, that he knew _must_ be there.

“By the Gods,” he murmured, scrambling up and hurrying over into his tiny, tiled bathroom. With a flick of his wrist he switched on the light; and the face that was staring back at him through the mirror, pale and wide-eyed, was not the one he had been used to for the last one-and-a-half millennia, far too young for its eyes and the things they had seen.

Merlin blinked at himself for a long while, his heart beating fast in his chest, pumping life through his veins once again, after it had been useless for everything but the infliction of pain for so long. Hope was unfolding its wings like a phoenix in Merlin’s chest, bright and yellow and unexpected.

_He’s coming back. He’s coming back to me._

The Dragon’s voice rang in his ears, a familiar reminder that Arthur’s return was attached to a certain condition, a condition that demanded _when Albion’s need is greatest._ Merlin remembered the nights he had spent here in his little cottage, listening to radio reports on the London Blitz only seventy-something years ago, waiting for a sign of Arthur’s recurrence, because surely this catastrophe, this Greatest War Of All must warrant his return. How could it not?

But the war had ended uneventfully, and Merlin’s hope had died.

He had cooked up many theories over the years about what kind of catastrophe might be necessary to convince The Powers That Be that the Once and Future King must rise again, but now, seeing the indelible evidence that some kind of magic had taken hold of him in his very bathroom mirror, he came up with nothing. Brexit? Sure, that was a catastrophe, but a rather mild one in comparison to WWII. Donald Trump? A tyrant, but not Hitler. Terror attacks, wars and bombings? There hadn’t been a decade without them for a too-long time.

Maybe the Dragon had been wrong? Maybe there had been a time limit to begin with, something like “when Albion’s need is greatest, Arthur will rise again _, but_ _not before 1500 years have passed_ ” and the Great Dragon had simply neglected to read the fine print? Or The Powers That Be had weird, _weird_ priorities when it came to things like resurrection, plus no timing skills to speak of?

Or maybe…

Merlin rested his hands on the rim of his washbasin and stared at his reflection.

Maybe the fact that his youth had returned to him in a strange and mysterious manner meant absolutely nothing.

He had hoped and yearned for a sign of some kind for so long, had run out to the lake and stared at the fallen tower of Avalon again and again for centuries but his hopes had never been fulfilled; and now he wasn’t sure whether it was wise to feel the way he was feeling. He had grown tired of being disappointed. The thought that Arthur might never return had occurred to Merlin a long time ago, but, stubbornly, he had always refused to accept the possibility. The idea that some unknown power had granted him immortality for no particular reason, that he was adrift in an eternal life with no goal, no purpose, frightened him like nothing else ever could… And he didn’t think he would survive it, if he actually stopped having faith in Arthur’s return.

_Then don’t lose faith. Go out there and don’t lose faith._

Merlin gave himself one last look in the mirror, sharp and determined, and hurried out into the living room to collect his battered coat and hat.

Thunder and lightning were still wreaking havoc outside, but a small snap of his fingers allowed Merlin to leave the house in a warm, invisible bubble that warded off the forces of nature. It was only a short trip on foot, down to the lake through rain-drenched grass and lightning-bright flashes of sight that allowed Merlin to find his way. He startled, when a particularly powerful bolt of lightning tore through the air on the opposite side of the water, the rumble of falling stones in its wake.

 _It must have hit the tower,_ Merlin thought, and then his foot got caught and he stumbled, down into the wet grass face-first, too shocked to hold his magic shield up. In a matter of seconds he was soaked in rainwater right down to his skin, struggling to rise to his feet again, but the low, human groan right next to him stopped him in his tracks.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t…”

“’s alright. I’m not…I… Where am I?”

The bright and yellow bird in Merlin’s chest took sudden, brutal flight, and Merlin went to his knees, found the silhouette next to him in the dark, a familiar span of shoulders, naked to his touch.

“Arthur?” His voice was cracking, too full of hope, hope that would destroy him, shatter him into a million pieces, if he was mistaken.

“Merlin?” Tentative, like the first green things at the end of winter.

And Merlin pulled him in, rain-drenched fabric on rain-drenched skin, _an eternity for this,_ and held on.

 

 

***

 

 

The firelight reflected on Arthur’s hair, bathed him in gold, and Merlin couldn’t shake the sensation of being removed from reality, seeing Arthur sit next to him on his couch like this, cuddled up in three warm, woollen blankets and not much else, because none of Merlin’s clothes fit him, obviously, and Arthur had complained about it in his usual, condescending manner, like no time had passed between them, like there hadn’t been more than a millennium separating them from then to now.

“You waited for me?” Arthur said for the tenth time, still incredulous, clasping the mug of tea Merlin had made him – an unfamiliar beverage, but one Arthur had taken an instant liking to. “You waited fifteen-hundred years for me?”

“Fifteen-hundred and a few,” Merlin corrected him, and right now that didn’t seem too long a time at all to be waiting for _this,_ for Arthur safe and sound on his sofa, sipping tea and trying to accustom himself to this brave new world he had risen to.

Arthur nodded wordlessly and took another sip of tea, as if he still needed some more time to grasp the concept. Merlin couldn’t exactly fault him.

“I did busy myself a little,” he finally relented. “Waiting does get boring when it is the only thing one does.”

“Indeed. I suppose it will take a while to bring me up to speed on everything you’ve been doing for the last few…centuries.” Arthur swallowed visibly. “Dear God, you still have magic, don’t you?”

“I do,” Merlin gave back, carefully. “But people tend not to believe in it any more. They have found their calling in technology and science, to surprisingly great success. The only kind of magic they accept as fact is the one that happens in video games. World of Warcraft and the like.”

Arthur looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Merlin chuckled. “You’ll find out soon enough. There is much for you to discover.”

“No doubt about that.” Arthur’s expression turned pensive. “I don’t mean to complain, but do you have _any_ idea why I’m here? I was dead, after all. And for a long time, too, it seems.”

Merlin thought about his answer for a while.

“The Great Dragon told me you would rise again when Albion’s need was greatest. But I have to be honest with you – I don’t know what he meant, exactly. This is not the worst time Albion has ever had, and it surprises me that you were sent back _now._ ” Merlin sighed in frustration. “I hate prophecies. They are indecipherable at best, inaccurate at worst.”

“You speak from experience?” Arthur asked; and Merlin thought about Mordred and Morgana and Camlann, and decided that this conversation would have to wait for another day.

Arthur seemed to pick up on his discomfort, because he didn’t insist on an answer, just put down his mug and gave Merlin a slow, soft smile.

“We will figure it out, Merlin. Haven’t we always?”

“Almost always.” Merlin couldn't mask the edge of sadness that snuck into his voice. “I wish I could have saved you, Arthur. I would have done anything.”

Layers of blankets fell off Arthur’s shoulder, leaving it bare to the firelight, when he stretched out his hand to cup Merlin’s face, and Merlin leaned into the touch, starving for it. “You _did_ save me, Merlin. You took me to Avalon.”

“Not in time,” Merlin objected, tears rising up in his throat. Arthur scooted closer, a tenderness in his expression Merlin remembered from centuries ago.

“But I’m here. Because of you. You,” There was a hint of wetness in Arthur’s eyes, too, then, a small breaking in his voice. “You waited for me.” His thumb caressed Merlin’s cheek like it was the most precious thing it had ever touched. “Are you…” Arthur began, halted, breathed, began again. “Are you still mine?”

Merlin’s fingers tangled with Arthur’s against his cheek. “Always,” he said, no voice left to speak of, but Arthur understood, and a moment later his lips were on Merlin’s, a question at first, then a demand, and Merlin opened his mouth against Arthur’s, because this was something he’d never forget how to do, no matter how long the waiting.

Arthur pulled him down on the sofa, all strength and gentleness, the blankets falling off him one by one, leaving the golden lines of his body uncovered, just as beautiful as Merlin remembered them, and all the while he kept kissing Merlin, breathing life back into parts of his soul he had thought dead and buried long ago.

“I never stopped,” Merlin said against Arthur’s lips in between kisses. “Gods, I never stopped.”

Arthur looked at him, reddened lips and black-blue eyes, a soft sheen of confusion in his gaze. “Never stopped?”  
“Being yours, Arthur.”

Arthur’s smile was too brilliant, too bright to be contained by his face, lighting up the whole room, the whole house, right into its deepest, darkest corners; and Merlin was home.


End file.
